


The Price of a Touch

by kathkin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (see a/n for a more detailed warning), Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Eye Trauma, M/M, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, now try 'we physically cannot share a bed or one of us might DIE', you've heard of 'there was only one bed'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: Geralt remembered, dimly, the feel of gentle hands on his skin. A hand in his. A kiss pressed to his forehead. A hand touching his sticky, sickly face, and recoiling. A cry of shock and pain. A glimpse of blistered skin.“How long has it been?” Jaskier said. “Since somebody touched you?”The mutagens used to make boys into witchers leave poison in their skin, in their hair, in their blood. To touch a witcher is agony. To get too close to one is deadly. Jaskier doesn't seem to care.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 254
Kudos: 2335





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) As w all my multi-chapter works, this fic is complete. Chapters 2 & 3 to follow in a couple of days.
> 
> 2) **Content warning:** there's a brief, non-graphic description of eye trauma (due to poisonous witcher blood) in the second scene.
> 
> 3) This was not _intended_ as a commentary on Current Events. However uhh thematically & emotionally it is, intentionally or otherwise, a reflection on Current Events. Whoops!

“Seventy-five,” said the man – the petty sorcerer, for that must be what he was.

“I already told you no.”

“One hundred,” said the sorcerer, wringing his hands, “and I can go no higher.”

Geralt fixed him with a furious stare. It did little to dissuade him. 

“Please, master witcher, sir,” he said. “Just a little. Just a drop. Name your price.”

Reaching for his sword, Geralt set it upon the table with a firm, muted, _clunk_. It lay beside his leather mask, empty eyeholes staring up accusingly. “I said no.”

The sorcerer bowed his head in a pantomime of respect. “I’ll take my leave of you, sir,” he said, “but if you happen to change your mind, you’ll find me at the Sign of the Dancing Swallow –”

“Leave.”

The man gestured and sputtered, making noises as if to speak, to argue on. Then he went. Geralt sat alone in his corner of the tavern. The tables nearby had cleared when he chose his seat, one by one, the patrons cramming themselves into the other half of the bar and leaving a circle of empty space all around him.

Two tankards thunked down on the table top. “That one bothering you?” Jaskier said, ducking his head in the direction the sorcerer had gone. He slid a tankard along the table.

Geralt set about decanting the contents into his own leather cup. “He wanted to buy some of my blood.”

“Ohh?” Jaskier leaned across the table, desperately curious. “You’re not selling?”

One of his hands came to rest flat on the table top, mere inches away from Geralt’s wrist. His glove had slid out of place, revealing a strip of bare skin. Geralt adjusted it, covering himself. He put his hands as far from Jaskier’s as he could.

“What do you think he was going to do with it?”

“Well –” Whatever suggestion Jaskier had been going to make died on his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, and settled for, “scientific research?”

Geralt drank from his cup. 

“Alright,” said Jaskier. “Fair point. There aren’t really any non-nefarious reasons for wanting it, are there?”

“Hm.”

The sorcerer hadn’t gone far. He was standing at the bar, leaning upon it to talk to the landlord. He shot Geralt a look over his shoulder. The landlord followed suit. They weren’t the only ones looking.

He drained his cup. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Before leaving the tavern, he put on his mask and looked back over his shoulder, viewing the huddled crowd already spilling back into the vacant seats through the security of its leather eyeholes, feeling the comfortable sensation of his own breath warm against his skin.

*

Not a lot of bandits were fool enough to pick a fight with a witcher. He’d killed one of their number already, the one he’d caught sniffing at Jaskier’s bags, and that hadn’t been enough to scare them off. At the sight of his companion dead one of the three men gathered around Roach was bold enough to rush him.

They grappled. The man was stout, but strong for a human. A decent fighter, too, smart enough to strike at the neck rather than the chest. Their swords clashed with a ringing of steel on steel, again, and again.

A slip. A lucky blow. The blade sliced into the gap between his mask and his armour and his blood sprayed out, hot, purple-red and inky, right into the man’s eyes.

He staggered back, howling. His sword fell from his hand in his haste to claw it out of his eye sockets, the fight all but forgotten, the skin of his face blistering, loosening. It was too late. It had been too late for him the moment the blood touched him. It had been too late the moment he’d started the fight. Geralt took his head off his shoulders. It was kinder, than letting the blood eat its way through.

Standing over the body, masked, dripping blood, he looked at the man’s two companions. Quivering, they turned tail and fled.

Alone, he staggered, blood still welling at his neck. He was bleeding hard but not bleeding out. He’d live.

“Geralt!” Jaskier came stumbling out of his hiding place, his feet slipping on the wet ground. Taking in Geralt fully, his eyes went wide, his face paling. “You’re hurt,” he said – and he took a hesitant step forward, a hand half-outstretched as if he meant to staunch the bleeding.

“Don’t,” Geralt choked out. “Stay back – stay _back_.”

Jaskier’s hand dropped. He looked at the dead man, the red mess his face had become. Geralt saw a spark of fear in his eyes, the realisation of the danger standing mere feet away, masked and bloodied.

He swallowed. He said, “can I help?”

Geralt shook his head. “I have bandages.”

“I’ll get them.” Jaskier made a move towards his pack.

“ _No_ ,” Geralt barked. “Don’t touch my bags.”

He’d told Jaskier enough times. _Are you really so dangerous_ , Jaskier had said, laughing. _I can’t even touch your things?_ He knew now. He’d understand, now.

Blood had soaked indelibly into his shirt. Later, after dark, he made a fire and burned it.

He cleaned his sword, and sharpened it. Across the fire Jaskier lay against a tree in an easy sprawl, but tense, fidgeting. The silence was loud and sucking. Every so often the fire popped.

At length, Jaskier said, “there’s something I’ve been wondering.

“Hm?” He knew what Jaskier was going to ask – or at least what he was going to ask about. He was too weary to try and dodge the question.

“Are witchers –” Jaskier motioned at the fire, at Geralt’s burning shirt, “to other witchers? Or are you immune?”

“Usually,” said Geralt. He went on sharpening.

“What does that mean, usually?” said Jaskier. “Usually you are or usually you aren’t?”

“Witchers are usually immune to each other.”

“I see.” Jaskier tapped a thoughtful hand against his knee. “But not always?”

The whetstone made a sharp, comfortable grinding sound as he drew it along the blade, again, and again.

“Geralt?” Jaskier tilted his head to the side to better see him through the flames. “Not always?”

“Most witchers aren’t poisonous to each other,” Geralt said. “Some of us were given – extra mutagens. They were supposed to make us stronger.”

“I see,” said Jaskier. “Is that why you have –” He motioned at his hair.

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “It made the poison my body makes – more potent.”

“Enough to hurt other witchers?”

Geralt grunted. Jaskier nodded, understanding. “And there aren’t a lot of you, I take it?” he said. “Who’re – who had these extra mutagens?”

He turned the whetstone over in his hand, and thought of lying. It would barely be a lie, to say _no, there aren’t_ , and let Jaskier drop the subject.

He said, “I was the only one who survived.”

Across the fire he heard Jaskier breathe in.

The fire popped.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, his voice tight. “Darling, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You know what I mean.” Jaskier shifted, sitting up straighter. “How long has it been?” he said. “Since somebody touched you?”

Geralt shrugged.

He remembered, dimly, the feel of gentle hands on his skin. A hand in his. A kiss pressed to his forehead. He remembered wrestling with the other boys, touching easily, freely. A hand touching his sticky, sickly face, and recoiling. A cry of shock and pain. A glimpse of blistered skin. Memories he couldn’t place in time. Memories that might have been dream.

Jaskier was getting up. Brushing forest-dirt from his hands, he came around the fire to sit a scant few feet away. Geralt didn’t meet his eyes, but he could feel him staring. He could tolerate being stared at when he had his mask. Bare-faced, he didn’t care for it.

“I’m truly sorry,” Jaskier said. “I can’t imagine how lonely that must be.”

“It isn’t.”

“Yes, it is,” said Jaskier, hushed. He shifted still closer. He rested a hand, as if considering resting it on Geralt’s armoured shoulder. He reached out.

Geralt jerked his shoulder up and back, out of reach. Jaskier’s hand hung on the air for a moment, then dropped.

“Right.” He cleared his throat.

“Sleep well,” said Geralt.

Jaskier said, “I’ll do my best.”

*

Weeks dragged on into months, and months into years, and they didn’t speak of it again. Jaskier was ever forthcoming with questions, about the Path, about the monsters Geralt hunted, but on this one thing he didn’t press.

He kept his distance as he always had – but not the way most people did. Most people tried to stay out of arm’s reach. Jaskier kept far enough away to avoid any accidental nudges, but not so far that Geralt couldn’t reach out and grab him, if he wanted. It was as if he was keeping his distance not so much for his own safety as for Geralt’s comfort.

Winter was drawing in. He was startled to realise that it was the eighth winter since they’d met.

Rain was lashing down in the village as he made his way to the alderman’s house for his coin, and the on to the inn where he had left Roach stabled. After he had checked on her he stood in the yard, considering the bright windows of the inn.

It was crowded inside with people driven off the streets by the rain. Much too crowded for his comfort. He stood in the doorway, masked and hooded, searching the crowd for Jaskier and not finding him. He pressed on inside and the crowd parted for him, people edging nervously out of his way.

He found Jaskier wrapped up in a girl. They were curled up together in the corner seat, her sitting half in his lap, one of his hands upon her hip and his face buried in her neck. “Hey, now!” she was giggling. “Stop it!”

“Shush, darling,” Jaskier muttered into her neck. His hand drifted from her hip down to the soft swell of her thigh, firmly gripping, his fingers dimpling her skirts.

She was still laughing. Then looking up she saw Geralt, a looming figure in his mask and dark clothes, and her eyes went big.

She swatted at Jaskier’s arm. “Hm?” he said.

“It’s _him_ ,” she hissed.

Jaskier raised his head. His hair was mussed and his mouth was smeared red with lip paint. His face broke into a stilted smile. “Geralt!” he said. “You’re back.”

Geralt wanted to explain himself, explain why he’d come into the tavern in search of him, but he couldn’t find the words. “I’ll leave you to it.”

He went back through the parting crowd.

At the door, he heard Jaskier’s voice behind him. “Geralt! Geralt – wait.”

Turning he saw Jaskier pushing through the crowd, dishevelled, his doublet unfastened, the lip paint on his face scarlet in the lamplight. “Sorry about that,” he said, holding up his hands as if in surrender. “I didn’t think you’d be back till later.”

“You can do what you want.”

“I know that,” said Jaskier. “I just, I, I –” He stammered to a halt.

It had been a while since he’d seen Jaskier take someone to bed. Geralt knew he hadn’t stopped, for he smelled sex on him sometimes, but he hadn’t thought much of it. He hadn’t thought that Jaskier might have been purposefully hiding his activities, in order to – what? Save his feelings?

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said again. “Where’re you going?”

“I’m camped in the woods,” said Geralt.

“I have a room upstairs,” said Jaskier. “We could –”

“No.” He made a move to leave.

“Geralt, it’s pissing it down. You’ll make yourself sick.”

“I don’t get sick.”

“Well, it still won’t be nice!” Jaskier said. “C’mon, it’s – well, it’s actually pretty cold up there, but it’s dry. That’s something.”

Geralt could feel himself wavering. It wasn’t correct, or safe. But he was wavering.

He said, “you have –” and motioned at the mesh covering his mouth.

“Hm?” Jaskier dragged the back of his hand across his lips and saw the paint. “Oh,” he said, trying to rub it away, mostly just smearing it about. “Sorry. Are you – coming upstairs?”

Geralt looked out the door, at the drumming rain. He said, “I’ll get my pack.”

He set up his bedroll on the floor. It was harder than the ground in the forest could be, but not so cold, and it was, at least, dry. He might actually get some sleep.

But he’d not slept in the same room as Jaskier before – not slept in a room with anyone, for a long time. In the small space the sounds of his breathing, his heartbeat, the shifting of his body, were amplified.

“You know, they’d probably give you a bed if you asked,” said Jaskier. “You did just kill their monster.”

“They’d have to burn the sheets,” said Geralt to the ceiling.

“Really?” said Jaskier. “It’s as bad as that?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier was lying on his stomach, regarding Geralt thoughtfully. One of his hands dangled over the edge of the mattress, his hand drifting in the air a scant few feet from Geralt’s face. His thumb was rubbing the side of his finger in slow, contemplative circles. The room was too small. It wasn’t built for two people.

He wondered if perhaps Jaskier’s ease in his presence was just foolishness. Perhaps he was too dense or too self-absorbed to see the danger he was in. In their first weeks together he’d had to explain to Jaskier more than once why they couldn’t share waterskins.

He said, “you don’t have to dance around it.”

“Hm?”

“What I am,” said Geralt. “You can ask about it.”

“It struck me as a sensitive subject,” said Jaskier.

“I’m used to it. Doesn’t bother me.”

“Hmm.” The tipsy buzz Jaskier had had earlier was passing, turning to sleepiness.

“Sorry for interrupting you,” Geralt said.

“Just now?” said Jaskier. “S’alright. She was very understanding.”

“Really?”

“Actually, she was a bit cross, but I’m sure she won’t hold the slight against me.”

Geralt grunted.

“If you’re sure you don’t mind my asking,” said Jaskier. “There’s something I’d like to know.”

“Yeah?”

“Is it just your blood that has – effects. Or is it –” Jaskier motioned vaguely at Geralt’s body. “Everything?”

“It’s everything.”

“So,” said Jaskier, “and if you mind me asking do say so, but – if you were to tongue kiss someone, they’d just – die?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Never put it to the test.”

“So have you ever kissed anyone?” Jaskier said.

“No.”

“Ah,” said Jaskier. “From anyone else an embarrassing admission. From you, an entirely responsible decision.” He flopped onto his back, and sighed. “What a way to go out, though.”

Geralt sensed what he was thinking. “It wouldn’t be pleasant.”

“Might be a little.” Jaskier held his thumb and finger close together by way of demonstration. “At the beginning.”

“Not even a little.”

“Can you be sure, though?” said Jaskier. “Never having put it to the test?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “I can.”

“Let me dream.” Jaskier lay back against the pillows. “Death by kissing. Amazing.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“I never said it was.” Rolling onto his side Jaskier looked down at him. “I don’t think anyone would blame you, you know. If it bothered you.”

“It doesn’t.” Geralt shifted in his bedroll. A nail was digging into his back. “You going to put that in one of your songs?”

“Hm?”

“Death by kissing.”

“Emphatically no,” said Jaskier. “I think some things are best kept between us. Wouldn’t you say?”

*

In winter he could relax, a little. In winter he was around only people he could trust to know his limits, who understood him and so didn’t fear him. They might lay a hand on his arm or his shoulder through his clothes, and he theirs. They’d make sure he saw them coming. They knew how it was.

The snows melted. Winter passed. He rode south.

Jaskier had said _I’ll be in Ard Carraigh in the spring – you can meet me there_. So he went to Ard Carraigh and waited there for two weeks, wondering as he had the last year and the year before that why he was bothering.

He’d said it so carelessly, _you can meet me there_ , like it was nothing at all. It was a weightless promise. He wouldn’t come. Why would he, when there were so many other places to be.

Then one night he heard music spilling out of a tavern, and there Jaskier was, playing as if he’d always been there, joking and laughing with the crowd as if he’d known them years.

“Geralt! Hi,” he said, sauntering over. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been terribly busy.”

“You’re always late,” said Geralt.

“Well, I’m always terribly busy,” said Jaskier. “Let me buy you a drink.”

In their empty corner of the tavern, Jaskier sat with his chin upon his hand, watching Geralt decant his beer into his own cup.

He said, “I have a job for you.”

“Fuck off,” said Geralt, still decanting.

“ _What_ – no,” said Jaskier. “A real one this time. _Honestly_.” He spread his hands. “You interested?”

“Could be.”

“It’s just that I passed through a village not two nights back on my journey north, and happened to hear some talk which I take it has not reached your illustrious ears as yet, else one would assume you’d have –”

“Get to the point, bard.”

“I was in the marketplace and struck up a conversation with a young man, who, I would like to note, was quite _radiantly_ beautiful. Tragically betrothed. By which I mean it was a tragedy for me, not for him. He seemed very happy about it. Anyway, he was telling me about a friend of his, who –”

“The _point_ , Jaskier.”

“You have no appreciation for a good story,” said Jaskier. “Fine. He told me they have a griffin problem. Are you happy with that account? That bare-bones account?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “Just the one?”

“No idea.” Jaskier shrugged blithely. “You interested? Could be fun.”

“You have a weird idea of fun.”

Jaskier waved a hand. “You know what I mean.”

“You’re not the one who has to fight it.”

“Do you think writing up your exploits is easy?”

“Yes,” said Geralt.

“ _Well_ ,” said Jaskier. “If you’re going to be like that, maybe I won’t tell you where it is.”

“I can find it on my own,” Geralt said.

“You’ll find it a lot faster with my help.” Jaskier motioned at his cup. “Anyway, get that down you. I’m getting paid very handsomely tonight and I’m pretty sure the landlord’s daughter is sweet on me so I intend to get absolutely plastered.”

*

“I wish you wouldn’t wear that thing, you know.”

“What thing?” Geralt touched the mesh covering his mouth. “The mask?”

“Yes, _that_ thing,” said Jaskier.

“Why?”

“I miss looking at your beautiful face.” Jaskier beamed at him.

Geralt fixed him with a stare.

“See, this is something I truly admire about you.” Jaskier motioned at his mask. “Your ability to deliver withering looks when one can’t see your face. Outstanding, sir.”

“I practice,” said Geralt.

“Oh, yes?” said Jaskier, sounding genuinely interested.

They were beginning to attract attention. The village was a tiny place, off the main road, and the people there had never seen a witcher before. He was drawing a crowd of curious onlookers, come to see the man with no face.

He looked at them through the confines of his leather eyeholes. “I hear you have a griffin.”

It was an archgriffin, and he wasn’t ready for it. It dove on them from the air while they were still tracking it to its nest, two hours’ walk from the village, pinned between rocks, and high, misty cliffs. The ground was wet underfoot from the early spring rains.

It was smart enough to know a threat when it saw one; to know that though Geralt had more meat on him, his scent meant _danger_. It was smart enough to go for Jaskier.

“ _Geralt_ –” He rest of his panicked cry was cut off as he was snatched up into the air and for half a second Geralt stared at the empty space where he’d been standing, off-kilter.

He hit it with Aard, quick and hard enough for it to wheel in the air and drop Jaskier, not hard enough to injure it. There was no time to wonder if Jaskier was alright. It was on him, and there was no space in his head to think of anything but the fight.

He finished it with a clean stroke through its chest, and the weight of its dying body forced him back – back – towards the muddy edge of the cliff. He clutched at the ground, dropped his sword, found purchase. Claws scrabbled at him, tearing into the leather of his armour. He hit it with Aard again, blasting it away from himself, and it fell, turning, into the valley, one broken wing vainly flapping.

But in taking a hand away to cast the sign he’d lost his grip. He slithered down, over the swell of the clifftop, over the edge. It was soft clay and he scrabbled at it, slipping, his feet scant inches from empty space. The smooth leather of his gloves could find no purchase in the clay. He ripped them off with his teeth, one by one, and held on tight.

“Geralt?” The sound of Jaskier’s voice and the squelch of his footsteps as he stumbled about carried over the edge of the cliff.

He wanted to call out, to say _I’m here_ , but it would do him no good. Jaskier couldn’t help him. He heaved himself up, one foot, and then the other. He was almost there. Searching for a handhold he found a tree root half-buried in the clay and clutched at it, pulling himself up.

The tree root snapped. The clay beneath him gave way and he was sliding back, his feet slipping, dangling over open air. He grasped for something, _anything_ to keep himself from falling.

There was nothing. For a fraction of a second it was over.

Then Jaskier was there, on his belly in the mud above him, reaching out for him, reaching for his hand. He said, “I’ve got you,” and before Geralt could process what he meant to do –

– their hands connected.

Jaskier’s grip was firm, and steady, pulling him upwards towards solid ground. His hand was warm, his fingers callused, his palm soft. Geralt could feel that grip all the way down his arm, feel it in his lungs and in his guts and the beating of his heart. He could feel nothing else, the world narrowing to a point, to their joined hands.

He was atop the cliff, or near enough, and dropping Jaskier’s hand he crawled the rest of the way. He caught his breath. He looked up.

Jaskier was breathing hard. His eyes were wide, but he wasn’t in pain. Geralt watched the look on his face change from blank relief to confusion as he realised what had happened. Uncurling his fingers he looked at his unmarked palm, as if he might somehow not have noticed himself being burned.

There was nothing to see but streaks of mud.

He met Geralt’s eyes. His lips were parted but he said nothing, for once at a loss for words. 

He reached out.

Geralt saw what he mean to do and said, “don’t –” but it was too late, Jaskier was touching him, cupping his face in both hands as if he couldn’t help himself, as if drawn in like metal to a lodestone.

If Jaskier’s hand in his had been a realisation, this, this was a revelation. A full body shudder went through him. His eyes fell shut. Jaskier’s hands burned like brands. He could feel every point they were touching, his fingertips, the swell of his palms, the warmth of his skin and the cool streaks of mud. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t _think_ over the intensity of skin on skin.

There was nothing between them, neither distance nor barrier. Jaskier’s palms were soft. His skin was fragile. Human. It should blister and burn. But there was only the unnatural, barely believable feel of unharmed skin against his, a sensation that called out to some deeply hidden part of him like a light in the darkness. A craving he had not let himself feel. A hollow ache in his chest.

Taking Jaskier by his clothed wrists he forced his hands away. “ _Don’t_.”

For a moment longer Jaskier was speechless. He was sitting so close, closer than they had ever been. Even this contact, Geralt’s bare hands against his clothes, was a line they’d never crossed. What Jaskier had just done –

He could still feel Jaskier’s hand in his. He could still feel Jaskier’s hands upon his face.

“I’m sorry.”

Geralt dropped his wrists.

“I don’t understand.”

He was so close Geralt could feel and smell his breath, could hear his heart like a drum beating in his ears. It was unbearable, without his mask, without his gloves. He was naked. He lurched to his feet.

“Geralt –”

He only managed a few heavy paces before he had to stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, wanting badly to touch his face. A misting rain had begun to fall, cool against his burning skin.

His back to Jaskier, he said, “are you alright?”

“What?”

“Are you hurt?”

“Oh,” said Jaskier. “Mostly my dignity. Bruised my ribs something fierce. I’ll live.” Geralt heard him swallow. “Are you alright?”

“I’m not hurt.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He didn’t know what to say.

“Geralt? Are you alright?”

What could he say, but the truth. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jaskier. “I shouldn’t have – touched you like that. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Geralt said. “You shouldn’t have.”

“I’m sorry,” said Jaskier again. “Should we –”

Whatever he was going to suggest he didn’t put voice to. Perhaps he didn’t know himself.

Geralt looked out over the cliff, at the gathering mist below. He said, “I need to find the body.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As stated above chapter two will be up later this week & will feature _*gasps*_ hugging & kissing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dimly, he remembered being held like this. He had forgotten how it felt and now in a heartbeat the feeling came back, the warmth of it, the steadiness, the calm._

He went down into the valley and found the griffin’s body, its neck shattered and bleeding steadily into the earth. He butchered it, taking his time, pulling it apart and taking out the pieces he could sell.

When he went back up the mountainside it was growing dark. Jaskier had made camp in a sheltered spot amongst the trees. They exchanged nods, and didn’t speak of it. They ate together and they didn’t speak of it.

They bedded down as they always did, on opposite sides of the campsite. Geralt lay awake, listening to Jaskier’s steady, alert breathing. It was a long time before either of them slept. Morning came, and still they didn’t speak of it.

He washed his hands and face in a stream that ran wet and dark down the cliff. It was safe to wash in running water. His poison would be diluted beyond harm well before it reached another living soul.

When he went back to their campsite Jaskier was waiting for him, his boots on, his lute slung over his shoulder. He watched quietly – too quietly – as Geralt gathered up his things.

He shifted his weight. “What happened yesterday,” he said. “I mean – it did happen, didn’t it? I didn’t dream it?”

It had felt like a dream. It was as if he’d stepped out beyond the bounds of what was normal – what was possible – and try as he might he couldn’t step back in. When he thought of it the memory rose up and up in his head until he could think of nothing else, until he could barely breathe around it.

He’d been trying not to think about it.

He said, “if it was a dream we both dreamt it.”

Jaskier nodded as if that was just what he’d expected to hear. He bit his lip in thought. He stepped forward.

He came closer – closer – till he was standing within reach – till he was closer than he’d normally dare stand. For a moment he silently studied Geralt’s face. Then, slowly, he stretched out his hand.

Hesitant, as if still afraid, he drew back, his fingers curling in. Then he seemed to resolve and more sure of himself he reached out and touched Geralt’s face. Just the tips of his fingers, at first, and then his whole hand, cupping Geralt’s cheek firm and steady. 

In trying not to think about he’d let himself forget what it felt like – just how intense it had been. All his breath left him as if he’d been struck in the stomach. His eyes fell closed. Jaskier’s thumb ran along his cheekbone and a shudder went through him, a thrill, a lurching nausea. It was unbearable. It was wonderful. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted _more_.

Jaskier’s hand fell away, the loss at once a relief and a yearning disappointment. Geralt opened his eyes.

“You – you just feel normal,” said Jaskier. “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I,” said Geralt.

“Has this happened before?”

Geralt shook his head.

“You are sure, though?” said Jaskier. “I mean, you’re sure about – how it works?”

For a moment he was speechless. “Of course I’m sure how it _fucking_ works.”

“Okay,” Jaskier said. “Alright. I had to ask.”

He was standing so close – closer than Geralt was used to being to someone, outside of a fight. His eyes kept flicking to Geralt’s lips.

Jaskier could touch him again, if he wanted to. There was a power in his hands now – a power over Geralt, and he wanted to run from it. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and Jaskier as he could. He wanted to forget this had ever happened. He wanted Jaskier to touch him again. He wanted.

“What are we going to do?”

Geralt turned away. “I’m going back to the village.”

“I feel like we should talk about this.”

Geralt grunted. He fetched his pack.

“We – we can’t _not_ talk about this,” said Jaskier. “Geralt.” Loading his bags onto Roach, Geralt said nothing. “Geralt!”

He took his mask from his pack and fastened it in place. He drew up his hood.

“Geralt – don’t –”

“Shut up,” he said, and Jaskier closed his mouth. “I’m going to the village. You don’t have to come.”

“Of course I’m going to come,” said Jaskier. “Of course I am.”

*

In the village, he haggled up his payment as much as he dared. He kept his mask on all the while and the Alderman’s eyes flicked nervously from its mesh mouth to the holes where his yellow eyes were just visible in the shadows.

That done, he rode back to the town. He had things to do – supplies to buy, griffin feathers to sell. Thoughts to think. Temptation to resist. 

It was mid-afternoon by the time he ventured to the inn in search of Jaskier. Inside it smelled sharply of new wood and beer. That time of day it was quiet, only a handful of people scattered around the room.

Jaskier was waiting by the bar. Geralt looked at him and for a moment saw a stranger. Who was this man, who could do the impossible. Who was this man who could lay hands on him.

He turned to leave.

Jaskier caught up with him, as he’d known he would, and cornered him by the stairs. “Can we talk?”

“We can talk,” he said. “We’re talking now.”

“I have a room.” Jaskier shot an anxious glance at the bar, where the landlord was watching them, visibly intrigued. “Can we go upstairs?”

He wanted to talk somewhere private – somewhere no-one could see – somewhere he could touch Geralt again, if he wanted to.

“I have things to do,” Geralt lied.

“Geralt, we need to –” Jaskier’s voice, harsh and exasperated, stuttered to a stop. He looked again at the barman and said, softer, “I want to talk to you.”

There was usually some element of performance to Jaskier’s manner. Even when they were alone, even when he was talking to himself, more often than not Geralt had the sense that he was playing for an imaginary audience. It was rare to see him so earnest.

He gave in.

Upstairs, he closed the door behind himself. The latch clicked into place and they were sealed away together, away from prying eyes.

“Will you take it off?” Jaskier motioned at his face.

Geralt didn’t move.

“Please,” said Jaskier. “I want to see you.”

For a moment longer Geralt hesitated. He drew back his hood and unfastening the mask tugged it aside.

Jaskier’s face broke into a smile. “There you are.”

They stood regarding each other. The sounds of the village carried up through the window. The air was cool against his bare skin.

Jaskier said, “you really don’t know why it happened?”

“No.”

“Have you ever heard of anything like this happening?”

“No.”

Jaskier put his hands upon his hips, mulling it over. “Could it be a spell?”

“I’d know if I’d be bespelled,” said Geralt. “Probably.”

“Hm.” Jaskier pursed his lips. “Could I have been bespelled?”

“I don’t know,” said Geralt. “Maybe. Yeah. You could be.”

“Is there a spell that could do that?”

“There’s spells that can do lots of things.”

The window was uncovered. It was open – exposed. Crossing the room he looked out, in case someone might be peeping in.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m getting the feeling you don’t think this is a spell,” said Jaskier.

“If there’s a spell it must have been for a reason,” said Geralt, still scanning the street outside. “I can’t see a reason why.”

“I mean, that _does_ make sense,” said Jaskier, “but I can’t see what else it could be.”

“Hm.” Satisfied no-one was watching Geralt pulled the curtain.

“Look,” said Jaskier, “you be as mysterious and tight-lipped as you want. I, I don’t really care. I’ve thought about this a lot today and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t _care_ why this is happening. I’m just – glad.”

“Glad?” Geralt echoed.

Jaskier wet his lips. He said, “can I hug you?”

“Probably.” Geralt caught his meaning. “Do you want to?”

“Badly. Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier. “May I?”

He hesitated – not considering it, for he couldn’t consider it. His mind was a blank. He didn’t know how to reply.

He nodded. Stepping forward, Jaskier threw his arms around him.

The tightness, the warmth of Jaskier’s embrace, startled him, all but took his breath away. He could feel Jaskier’s hands on his back, his fingers digging in through the thick wool of his cloak. He could feel Jaskier’s hair tickling his nose. His breath, warm against the skin of his neck.

Dimly, he remembered being held like this. He had forgotten how it felt and now in a heartbeat the feeling came back, the warmth of it, the steadiness, the calm. Slowly, he put an arm around Jaskier’s waist. Long moments passed.

Breathing out, Jaskier drew back. His eyes were wet. His hands lingered on Geralt’s shoulders.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” he said, his voice unsteady.

“You wanted to –” Saying it aloud felt too intimate. “– touch me?”

“I’ve known you almost a decade and I’ve never even hugged you,” Jaskier said. “It’s not right.” Absently, he picked up a hank of Geralt’s hair and slipped it behind his shoulder. “I don’t care about the reason why. I just want to keep touching you.”

“Do you?” said Geralt.

“I’ve been aching to touch you for years,” Jaskier went on. “You don’t have to let me. If you want me to not touch you –”

“No.” The word burst out without his meaning it to. He wanted Jaskier to hold him again. He didn’t know how to ask.

“No?” Jaskier’s hands fell from his shoulders.

For a moment he floundered. He was lost. It would be so easy to step away, to step away and say he didn’t want it and never speak of it again.

He said, “do it again.”

“Do what again?”

Still he couldn’t find the words. He took Jaskier’s wrist, his gloved hand against the silk of his doublet, and lifted his hand. He let go, and understanding what he wanted Jaskier completed the motion, reaching up, cupping his face.

This thumb stroked along Geralt’s cheek. “I think about this a lot,” he said. “Do you think about it?”

“No.”

He didn’t think about things he couldn’t ever have. There was no sense in dwelling on it. When he caught himself looking at someone and wanting to touch them he made himself look away. Over the years it had become a reflex – to look once and then never again.

He had looked at Jaskier. He had looked at Jaskier more than once.

He said, “what do you think about?”

“How badly I want to touch you,” said Jaskier. “And all the different ways.” His hand left Geralt’s cheek, slipping down, down to his armoured chest. “What are you thinking about? I can never tell.”

“What ways do you want to touch me?” 

“What ways do you think?”

“I don’t know.” But that wasn’t the truth. “Don’t want to assume.”

“All sorts of ways.” His hand slid up to Geralt’s shoulder, along his arm in a slow caress – was it a caress? “Like this. More than this.”

Geralt’s heart was beating steadily faster. He knew what this was, and where it was going. He had never experienced it before. It seemed so fragile – an image that would disappear if he got too close, dissipate if he were to touch it. If he spoke he might say the wrong thing.

“I want to take you to bed.” Jaskier’s voice was low, and soft. His hand pressed easily into Geralt’s chest. “If you’ll have me.”

The idea of it was scintillating. A thrill went through him at the thought of Jaskier’s skin against his – of having all of him – of being stripped bare. Part of him was repulsed, shrinking back, remembering cries of pain, skin burned and blistered. But that fear was quickly overwhelmed by sheer _wanting_.

“Yes,” he said, the word tripping out before he could stop it, before he’d had time to fully think it. “Yes.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up. “Alright, then.” His gaze dropped, slowly and eagerly looking Geralt up and down as if deciding where to start. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.” Jaskier leaned in. He pulled his head back. “No.”

“No?”

“It might not be safe,” he said. “Just because you can touch me doesn’t mean it’s – safe.”

Jaskier nodded. His tongue flicked out, wetting his lips, and distantly Geralt wondered what those lips felt like.

“I understand,” he said, and for once Geralt thought that he did. Even if he didn’t truly understand that it might not be safe, Geralt had said not to kiss him on the mouth, and so he would not.

His arm slid around Geralt’s neck, drawing him in closer. He ducked his head forward and lingered, so close that Geralt could taste his breath, waiting for permission or refusal. Geralt said nothing. He didn’t dare speak.

Jaskier kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and careful, and a full-body shiver went through him. Jaskier made a pleased noise at his reaction and kissed him again, his cheek, his temple, kissing a line up to his ear, and all Geralt could do was stand rigid in his arms and breathe through it.

Sure and steady Jaskier’s hands found the fastening of his cloak and it slid down his shoulders to pool on the floor behind him. “Gods,” Jaskier said in his ear, “but I’ve wanted this for _so_ long.”

The thought of Jaskier looking at him – wanting him – thinking about having him – was enough to make his cock throb in his breeches. He put his arm around Jaskier again, pressing a hand to the small of his back, drawing him in closer, aching for more.

But – _fuck_. “We can’t.”

“Hm?” Jaskier lifted his head from Geralt’s shoulder, bright-eyed and tousled.

“The sheets,” Geralt managed.

“ _Fuck_ the sheets,” said Jaskier emphatically. His hands explored Geralt’s chest, his shoulders, looking for the fastenings of his armour.

“But –”

“I will _pay_ for the sheets,” said Jaskier. “How does this come off?”

Wordless, Geralt guided his hands to the fastenings, letting himself be stripped down to his shirt. Jaskier tugged off his doublet, letting it fall to the floor, heedless of the dust. He reached for Geralt, stroking his face, kissing his cheek, his neck, the underside of his chin, anywhere he could reach and kiss safely; then taking his hand – his ungloved hand – he tugged him towards the bed.

“Have you ever done this before?” Breathlessly he pushed Geralt down onto the worn mattress.

Geralt let himself be pushed. “No.”

“Not ever?”

“I was – too young,” Geralt explained. “When it –”

“I understand.” Fluid and eager, Jaskier climbed atop him, straddling his hips, pressing a hand to his chest, and Geralt didn’t think he’d ever in his life been so aroused. “Geralt, my darling, I’m going to be _so_ good to you,” he said. “I’m going to make the earth move for you, my darling.”

He ground his hips down, rubbing his hard cock against Geralt’s. “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, a smile quirking his lips. “Like that.”

He wanted so badly to feel those lips. He wanted to touch, wanted to touch Jaskier as easily and confidently as Jaskier had touched him; wanted to put his hands upon Jaskier’s hips and tug him still closer, press their bodies tight together. He clutched at the blanket, his hands clenching, white-knuckled.

Slowly, Jaskier began to unfasten his breeches, teasing each button out of its snug hole as if savouring the experience. He wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He pulled himself out, flushed and damp and already fully hard.

He stroked himself, once, and Geralt groaned at the sight. “You like that?” said Jaskier.

“Yeah.”

Letting go of himself Jaskier toyed with the hem of Geralt’s shirt. “May I?”

“Yeah.” Sitting up Geralt let Jaskier pull his shirt up and over his head, baring him.

“ _Oh_ my.” Jaskier’s hand traced down his chest, fingers splayed.

He’d never been undressed in front of Jaskier before – was always careful to wash only where there were no humans around, for fear of accidents. Jaskier had never seen him bare before. He didn’t think he was much to look at, tough and scarred as he was, but Jaskier was gazing at him with bright-eyed admiration as if looking at a marble statue.

Meeting his eyes, Jaskier said, “may I?” Geralt nodded, not sure what he was agreeing to but wanting it, wanting whatever Jaskier was offering.

Leaning down Jaskier kissed his clavicle, kissed him again and again, trailing kisses down his chest, soft but frantic as if he couldn’t get enough of kissing Geralt, as if he wanted to drink him up. His hand slid around to Geralt’s flank, pressing in, holding him steady.

He said between kisses, “anywhere I shouldn’t touch?”

“I don’t know,” Geralt said.

Jaskier’s thumb swiped over his nipple. He could hardly think. “Anywhere that’s – sensitive?”

Geralt caught his meaning. Taking Jaskier’s hand by the wrist, he guided it down to a scar low on his stomach, a recent one that still ached to the touch. “Not here.”

He let go, and carefully Jaskier moved his hand away. “Just there?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt, head spinning. “Only there.”

Jaskier ran his thumb over his nipple again. “How about here?”

He swallowed, and said, “yes,” and Jaskier replaced his thumb with his mouth. Geralt closed his eyes and breathed deep, fighting the urge to jerk away, letting the feel of it wash through him.

Jaskier kept going, kissing a line down his chest to his flat belly, slower now, slow and wet. “You are – _so_ beautiful.” He kissed just beside Geralt’s navel. “Anyone ever tell you that?”

“No,” said Geralt.

“Well, they should.” Jaskier’s hand cupped his erection, squeezing, and he grunted, hips jerking up into that contact. He felt Jaskier’s smile against the skin of his belly. Jaskier’s fingers toying with the fastenings of his breeches.

Steeling himself, he caught Jaskier’s hands. “No.”

Raising his head, gaze open and earnest, Jaskier said, “you don’t want to? Or it’s not safe.”

“Not safe,” Geralt managed.

“I can be careful.” Jaskier unfastened the first button.

He should say _no_. There were other ways they could take pleasure – probably. He shouldn’t risk hurting Jaskier for his own selfish wants. It went against everything he had ever been taught. But he _did_ want. He wanted this like he had never wanted anything before, wanted it so badly he could barely breathe, his lungs full of wanting, his head clouded with wanting.

He let go of Jaskier’s hands and nodded, once.

Deftly, Jaskier unbuttoned him the rest of the way, tugging his breeches open. His hand slipped inside, easing him out of his smallclothes, and Geralt breathed out in relief.

Jaskier’s hand wrapped around his cock. He made a happy noise, a hum of pleasure, of contentment. “ _That’s_ nice,” he said. “Always knew you’d be big.” Slowly, he began to stroke. “How do you like it?”

“I don’t –”

“Show me?”

Emboldened, he reached down and put his hand atop Jaskier’s, guiding him, showing him the rhythm he used when he touched himself. Jaskier found it easily. “Like this?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “ _Fuck_. Yes.” His hand slipped away.

He wanted to lie back and enjoy it, but there was a tension in his mind and body that wouldn’t ease, a feeling of wrongness, a terror of what might go wrong – how badly Jaskier could be hurt, if it went wrong.

His cock was growing wet at the tip, beginning to drool, and reaching out he caught Jaskier’s wrist. “Careful –”

Jaskier shushed him. “It’s alright,” he said, still stroking him. Geralt put a hand over the head of his cock, trying to shield it, but he wasn’t fast enough. A bead of liquid escaped, running down his shaft, over Jaskier’s fingers.

For a moment Jaskier tensed, flinching. His hand stilled, his grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. Then he relaxed. Releasing Geralt’s cock he brought his hand up closer to his face, inspecting it. “Doesn’t hurt a bit,” he said, though his smile had a touch of anxiety to it.

“You need to be careful,” said Geralt. 

“Geralt, my darling,” said Jaskier, taking him in hand once again. “I wouldn’t be in bed with you if I wasn’t willing to take the risk.

Lies spilled from Jaskier’s lips as easily as songs, but that was the truth. Jaskier had always taken risks where Geralt was concerned. He could come within touching distance; sit with Geralt when his face was bare and his gloves were off; sleep beside him.

When Geralt had been falling he had reached out for him, fully expecting to be burnt by it. He hadn’t hesitated.

“Do you want to stop?” said Jaskier, his hand stilling.

“Why the fuck would I want to stop?” said Geralt.

“You looked very serious for a moment there.” He let go of Geralt’s cock and patting his shoulder said, “wait here.” He scrambled off the bed. “And take your trousers off.”

Geralt kicked them off and lay back against the pillows, watching as Jaskier stripped down, as parts of his skin he’d never seen were revealed, piece by piece. His back. The dip of his spine, and the line of dark hair that grew up his tailbone. His backside. His thighs. 

He wanted badly to run a hand along the inside of Jaskier’s thigh, to see if it was as soft as it looked; to touch the tender underside of his knee.

Crouching Jaskier rummaged for a moment in his pack. He came back to bed with a bottle in hand and climbed atop Geralt, straddling his hips as he had before.

He kissed Geralt’s cheek, and said, “still with me, love?”

_Love_ was a new one. Jaskier called him all sorts of things but never _love_. It had fallen from his lips so easily, so naturally. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m with you.”

Jaskier smiled fondly down at him. “Good.”

Opening the bottle he poured a generous measure of oil into his palm and spread it out, working it between his fingers. When he took Geralt in hand again and stroked him it was wet and warm. Geralt grunted, his hands clenched against the blankets.

This time Jaskier noticed. Tsking, he took one of Geralt’s hands and planted it firmly on his thigh. It was soft to the touch, the skin unmarred. He ran his hand along it, scarcely able to believe what he was doing.

It felt so good. All of it felt so good.

Jaskier shifted forward, pressing their bodies closer together, their thighs touching, their chests touching, sending prickles over Geralt’s skin at each point of contact. He wrapped his hand around them both, pressing their cocks together, spreading the oil about. His hand curled around both slick heads, working them, and Geralt’s head fell back against the wall. “ _Fuck_.”

“Too much?”

“I’m not gonna last.”

“Do you want to slow down?” Geralt shook his head. “That’s ok.” Slowly, Jaskier began to move against him, thrusting up into his own hand, into the warmth of Geralt’s body. “This isn’t my first time, being someone’s – first time.” He leaned in still further, pressing their bodies still tighter together, chest to chest. “Put your arms around me.”

Mutely obedient he put his arms around Jaskier’s waist, drawing him still closer, acutely aware of everywhere they were touching, every inch of Jaskier’s skin that was against his.

It was too much. All of it was too much. His body felt raw, like an exposed nerve, his skin on fire with it. Jaskier’s mouth was hot as a brand against his neck and the feel of their bodies moving together was warm, slick, intoxicating. It was unbearable. It was unthinkable. He never wanted it to end.

It was going to break him open any moment now. He could feel it coming, his climax building low down in his belly. Trying to give some warning, he grunted, “Jaskier –”

“Yeah,” said Jaskier, voice breathy, dropping kisses along the line of Geralt’s jaw.

“I’m gonna come,” Geralt said. Reaching down he put his hand between their bodies, trying to shield Jaskier from it.

“ _Gods_ , yes _please_.” Jaskier’s hand knocked his out of the way, working him, drawing him still closer and closer to the edge. 

Panic gripped him, but it only added fuel to the fire for there was a thrill to it, to the danger, to the forbidden, to not knowing what would happen. He’d never come in front of another person before. Mere hours ago he’d thought he never would.

A few more perfect strokes, and he broke. He was coming, coming longer and harder than he ever had before, his whole body shaking, his grip on Jaskier’s waist tightening, breath coming in pants against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Jaskier was saying, “that’s it. Come for me, my darling.”

Spent, he slumped back against the wall. Above him Jaskier was tousled, sweaty, breathless, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen anything so beautiful.

Remembering himself, he said, “are you –”

“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Jaskier glanced down. “Though the colour’s a bit unusual.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Jaskier’s hand began to move again, stroking himself slowly. “That was gorgeous, you know that? You’re gorgeous,” he said, his hand speeding up. “I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me –” 

Geralt could hear his heartbeat, racing like a rabbit. He smelled of lust, of salt and musk and Geralt’s own scent. His body tensed and gasping, hips jerking forward into his own hand, he spent himself all over Geralt’s chest.

He ducked his head, heaving deep breaths, collecting himself. “ _Fuck_ ,” he pronounced. “That was good.”

“Yeah?” said Geralt.

Jaskier’s arm slipped around his neck, leaning in till they were nose to nose. “Yeah,” he agreed. He kissed the corner of Geralt’s mouth. “Fuck me,” he said, kissing the other corner. “I want to kiss you. Can I kiss you?”

He bit back a _yes_. “It might not be safe.”

“Do you want to?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt before he could stop himself. “Yeah.”

Jaskier cupped his cheek, and looking him in the eye said, “if I die, I die.”

Then he kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh no is he going to die????
> 
> ...
> 
> He is not going to die.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read & commented on chapter one!! You guys are so sweet. And MUCH more invested than I expected in the reason for Jaskier's immunity. I'm uhh getting to that in the last chapter. I hope it doesn't disappoint.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He didn’t dream often. When he dreamed, he rarely had good dreams, the kind he’d be reluctant to wake from. He didn’t remember how it felt. This, he imagined, was how it felt._

For a moment Geralt tensed, bristling all over at the danger. Then Jaskier tilted his head, deepening the kiss. He licked into Geralt’s mouth, making a happy noise as he did so, and Geralt let himself relax.

He didn’t know how to kiss; he’d never kissed anyone before, never so much as thought of kissing. He’d never thought he’d be able to kiss anyone. Jaskier’s kiss was hot, wet, sweet, guiding him, coaxing Geralt’s tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. Geralt groaned low down in his throat, clutching at Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier’s tongue worked in and out of his mouth, slow and easy, his thumb stroking along Geralt’s cheek to the corner of his mouth. He could get drunk on this, he realised. He could do this for hours. He wanted to do it for hours.

His thoughts dissolved into a soft, lusty haze.

Gradually, it ended, Jaskier kissing him open-mouthed, sucking upon his lower lip – drawing away.

“Mm.” Sitting back on his haunches, Jaskier wiped the back of his hand over his lips. “That made my mouth tingle,” he said. “Is that how it starts? Am I going to die?”

“I think if you were going to die you’d be dead already,” said Geralt.

“Good to know.” Jaskier’s mouth worked as if exploring it from the inside with his tongue. “ _Oh_. That’s weird.”

“It was good,” said Geralt.

“Yeah?” The corner of Jaskier’s mouth tilted up.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Leaning forward Jaskier touched their foreheads together, resting there a moment, breathing Geralt’s air. He was so close and he smelled wonderful, smelled of sex and sweat and rain. “You know,” he said, “I think we could both use a bath, but I _cannot_ be bothered moving.”

“Hm,” Geralt agreed, drowsy, and content. “Yeah.”

“Hang on,” said Jaskier, and leaning off the bed he heaved his pack closer. “Gotcha.” He rummaged for a moment and produced a clean handkerchief.

He mopped quietly at Geralt’s belly, and Geralt sat listening to his breaths, his slowing heartbeat. Jaskier scrunched up the handkerchief in his hand and said, “am I going to have to burn this now, or what?”

“Depends on whether anyone else is going to use it,” said Geralt.

“Not likely,” said Jaskier. “Anyway, it’s silk,” he added, which had no bearing on whether or not it was safe to keep it. Tossing the handkerchief to the floor, he said, “lie down.”

Obediently Geralt lay down upon the bed. He felt soft and yielding, like he’d do anything Jaskier asked, like his body was clay for Jaskier to mould. It was a good feeling. An easy one to let himself sink into.

Flopping down atop him, head pillowed upon his chest, Jaskier breathed out. “ _Oh_. That was nice.”

Geralt grunted.

“Did you like it?”

“Mmmm,” Geralt groaned, drawn-out and contented, and Jaskier laughed a little – not an unkind laugh, but still it gave him pause. “Did you?”

Jaskier raised his head. “Did _I_ like it?” Geralt grunted an affirmative. “I said I did, didn’t I?”

“I know what you said.” He didn’t know how to find the words to explain. “You’ve been with a lot of people. People who are –” Beautiful. Charming. Good lovers. “– Experienced.”

“So?”

The _so_ struck him as self-evident. “I can’t give you that.”

Jaskier pursed his lips. He propped himself up on his elbow. “I’ve been waiting eight years for this, Geralt,” he said, “and it was wonderful.” So saying, he leaned up and kissed Geralt softly on the mouth.

Geralt jerked his head away.

“No?” Jaskier raised his eyebrows, disappointed, vaguely incredulous.

“You said it was – weird.”

“I didn’t say it was a _bad_ weird.” Jaskier kissed him again, this time with a little tongue. “It’s good,” he said huskily against Geralt’s mouth. “It’s just – different” Dipping his head he nuzzled at Geralt’s neck. The feel of that contact made his skin prickle and he grunted, clutching at the blankets beneath him, a ripple of tension going through his body.

Jaskier huffed and taking Geralt’s hand by the wrist put it on his thigh. Again Geralt tensed, slipping his hand from Jaskier’s grip.

“You can touch me.” Jaskier drew back to look him in the eye. “I’m not going to break.”

“You might,” Geralt reminded him.

“Whatever this is, I don’t think it’s about to stop working.” Taking Geralt’s hand, this time Jaskier planted it squarely upon his face. Geralt’s fingers brushed his eyelids and he couldn’t breathe. The thought of what it might do to Jaskier – to his face, to his _eyes_ – “See?” Jaskier moved Geralt’s hand away, revealing a blithe grin. “It’s fine.”

He guided Geralt’s hand back to his thigh. “Stop bristling and _touch_ me,” he said. “I want you to touch me.”

Geralt sat for a moment frozen, his hand upon Jaskier’s thigh, fingers digging into his soft, pliant flesh. He wanted to – he so badly wanted to. But the habit, the fears, of a lifetime stopped him. He couldn’t.

Could he?

Carefully, afraid to push too hard, he rolled Jaskier over onto his back and Jaskier went easily, happy to be moved this way and that. He flopped back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, the other hand reaching down to stroke his own thigh. He looked up at Geralt, a curious glint in his eyes. “Hm?” he said, a voiceless sound of encouragement.

Geralt put his hand to Jaskier’s neck, where he could feel the blood rushing beneath his skin. Jaskier tilted his head back, to give him better access, and the trust in that tiny motion made Geralt’s heart beat faster. Jaskier was letting him put his hand to his throat – was _enjoying_ having Geralt’s hand upon his throat.

His eyes tracked down Jaskier’s body, his skin tender and untouched like a stretch of perfect, untrodden snow. Slowly, he ran his hand down Jaskier’s chest, feeling as much as hearing that catch in Jaskier’s breath at being touched so.

He touched Jaskier’s hip, his inner thigh, where he was soft and vulnerable, and Jaskier lay still beneath him, not speaking, not making any move to stop him. He ran a hand up Jaskier’s thigh, to the inside of his knee, and at last he moved.

Shifting on the bed, he sighed, “mmm. That’s nice.” Reaching up he cupped Geralt’s face and not thinking – not letting himself think – Geralt put his hand atop Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s thumb traced over his lips in wordless invitation and taking his hand Geralt kissed it, kissed his palm, the inside of his wrist, and again Jaskier sighed.

He kissed along the inside of Jaskier’s arm, pressed his lips to his inner elbow, making him shiver. He kissed his shoulder, his neck, where the scent of him was thick and heady. He couldn’t help but groan in satisfaction, his chest rumbling with it.

“You like that?” said Jaskier.

“You smell good.”

“I imagine I smell like I need a bath,” Jaskier laughed.

Jaskier smelled best, Geralt felt, when the scent of his perfumes and bath oils had faded away, when he smelled only of himself and of rain and wood smoke and the green smell of the outdoors. He chased that scent deeper, along his neck, behind his ear.

“Each to their own, I suppose,” Jaskier ruminated. He stroked Geralt’s hair, calmly, steadily. He breathed out, slow, and Geralt felt that breath tingle against his skin.

He wanted to feel Jaskier’s breath on his skin, to fill his lungs with his scent, wanted it forever. He didn’t want to move from that narrow bed, didn’t want to face the next day, didn’t want to think about why they could touch. He wanted only to drink all of Jaskier in, and let his mind drift.

He left his mind drift.

*

Later, he lay back in the bathtub, awake but not alert, his mind still adrift with idle, indulgent thoughts. He might have been floating, high up in the air or in a warm sea.

Jaskier, already washed, was puttering about the room with damp hair, changing into his clean clothes. Geralt let his eyes fall closed, enjoy the water, the rare freedom of being naked indoors.

“Want me to wash your back?”

“Sure.”

Sleeves rolled up, Jaskier knelt behind the bathtub and nudged him to sit forward. His hands were gentle. The soap was slick and good on Geralt’s skin. The shock of it was fading; the fear was passing. He could almost enjoy it freely. Almost.

“I can wash your hair while I’m here,” said Jaskier.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to do that,” Jaskier said. “Here.”

He used his own soap. Geralt recognised the scent, light and pleasant and citrusy. It was good. The feel of the pads of Jaskier’s fingers working against his scalp was even better. He moaned aloud, unable to help himself. “Mmm.”

“Hm?”

He settled back against the tub, and said nothing more as Jaskier rinsed out the soap, leaving its fresh scent behind. He didn’t stop touching Geralt’s hair once it was clean. He sat stroking it, running his fingers through it.

“Can I braid it?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier. “Just always wanted to.”

“If you want.”

There was a gentle tugging at his scalp as Jaskier began to divide his hair into sections. “You have lovely hair, you know,” he said. “And – wow, it is _really_ white, isn’t it?”

“You knew that.”

“I suppose I don’t often get to see it clean,” said Jaskier, starting the braid. “It’s beautiful.”

Geralt shifted into a more comfortable position in the bathtub.

“You okay?”

“Hm.”

He tried, for long minutes as Jaskier braided his hair, to slip back into his comfortable, drifting doze. But unease was creeping up his spine. His scalp prickled where Jaskier had touched it.

He didn’t dream often. When he dreamed, he rarely had good dreams, the kind he’d be reluctant to wake from. He didn’t remember how it felt. This, he imagined, was how it felt.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Braiding your hair?” said Jaskier. “Because I think it’ll look nice.”

“No,” said Geralt. “All of this.”

“Do you mean the sex?”

“Not the sex,” Geralt said. “Not just the sex.”

“Then I really don’t know what you’re getting at.”

Geralt changed tacks. “How long have you wanted the sex?”

“I don’t know,” said Jaskier. “How long have we known each other?”

Geralt’s heart thudded, once, in his chest. “That long?”

“Mmm,” Jaskier hummed. He tied off the braid, and put his hands on Geralt’s wet shoulders. “You had me at the silent brooding.”

“You never said.”

“What would I have said?” Jaskier draped the damp and heavy braid over his shoulder. “ _Oh, by the by, Geralt, I’d like to take you upstairs and fuck your brains out but unfortunately we cannot do that on account of your being deathly poisonous. Pity, that._ It would only have made things uncomfortable.” Geralt heard him shift. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I don’t get uncomfortable easy.”

“Still.”

“You wanted to fuck me?”

“Do you want the full list of things I’d like to do to you?” Jaskier’s hands stroked his shoulders. “It’s quite long.”

“Not tonight.”

“But another night?” said Jaskier, and Geralt could hear his smile.

“Maybe.” Again he closed his eyes. “You’ve really wanted me all this time?”

It was all but unimaginable, that it might be so. For him to look out of his world and see Jaskier and want him was one thing. For Jaskier to look into his world and _want_ what he saw was another altogether.

Jaskier’s arms slipped around him, his chin resting upon his shoulder, and Geralt started at being embraced so suddenly, so easily. “My darling, I’ve been a little bit in love with you since I first laid eyes on you,” he said. “I think by now I’m a lot in love with you.”

“Why me?”

“Why _not_ you?” Jaskier touched a kiss to his cheek. “I don’t understand how everyone doesn’t fall in love with you.”

“I think you know why.”

“Because people are very stupid,” said Jaskier against his ear. “And don’t see how beautiful you are.”

Again, his heart did that strange throb deep in his chest.

*

Slowly and gently, he woke up.

The bed was firm. The straw mattress prickled him. But it was more comfortable than the ground. More comfortable still was the feel of Jaskier’s warmth pressed against his side, Jaskier’s body curled alongside his, still asleep.

Rolling over, Geralt watched him, counting his steady breaths. Feeling bold he reached over and took Jaskier’s hand from where it lay outstretched on the pillow. It was unharmed. He squeezed it, ran his thumb over his knuckles. Still, it was fine.

He put Jaskier’s hand back upon the pillow and pushed himself up. Jaskier stirred, eyes half opening. “Hm?”

“Shh.”

“Where are you going?”

“It’s morning,” said Geralt.

Jaskier squinted up at him. “Mm-mm,” he murmured, reaching out, coaxing Geralt back down.

“But it’s morning,” Geralt protested.

“Fuck that.” Jaskier burrowed into his neck. “Stay a while.”

The next hours passed in a sleepy, blissful haze. They didn’t make love again; they lay under the blankets, Jaskier’s arms around him, trading kisses and soft touches, drifting in and out of sleep. He forgot the itching of the straw mattress, the pressures of the new day, the towns of the sound waking up. He let himself forget everything.

It was well into the morning by the time they ventured out of bed. As he dressed he found his skin felt different, tender and delicate to the touch. The world had shifted off-kilter.

“Can I try this on?” Mostly dressed, Jaskier stooped to fetch his mask from the floor.

“Why?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Just for the hell of it.”

There was no harm in it that he could see. “Be careful.”

Shooting him a look as if to say _what could possibly happen?_ Jaskier fitted the mask to his face.

“ _Oh_ ,” he said, at once snatching it away. “Fuck me, it smells awful in there.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I think you must be used to it, because it _really_ stinks.” Jaskier thrust the mask at him. “It smells like it’s been soaked in piss and then left in a warm room for a month. I don’t know how you stand it.”

“As you said.” Geralt snatched the mask back. “I’m used to it.”

“Well, I shan’t be trying it again.” Wandering over to the bed Jaskier sat down to fasten his shoes. “Have you given any more thought to this – business?”

“You mean you being able to touch me?” Geralt toyed with his mask. He couldn’t quite face putting it on, yet.

“Yes.” Jaskier leaned over to fasten his other shoe. “That business.”

“I don’t think it’s a spell.”

“No?” said Jaskier, glancing up. “What do you make of it, then?”

Geralt had been thinking on and off since the night before, wondering how best to ask, and still he had no idea. He said, “tell me about your parents.”

“Hm?” Jaskier looked up at him. “My _parents?_ ”

“Yeah.”

Slowly, Jaskier straightened up. He rested his hand firmly upon his knee. “Geralt, I’ve known you eight years and I think this is the first time you’ve ever asked about my family. What’s brought this on?”

“Just answer the question.”

“It’s just that it’s a bit of a big question and somewhat of a non-sequitur,” said Jaskier.

“It isn’t a non-sequitur.” Restless, Geralt began to pace their little room.

“Then what on earth are you driving at?” Jaskier spread his hands. “Is there something specific you’d like to know?”

“Were they –” Geralt sought the right word. “Ordinary?”

“That would depend on how you define ordinary.”

Geralt gave up trying to be tactful. “Were they human?”

“What?” said Jaskier. “Yes, of course. Naturally they were.”

“You certain?”

“Absolutely.”

“You sure about who your father was?”

“Well –” Breathing out, Jaskier deflated slightly. “As – as sure as anyone can be, I suppose.”

“You look like him?”

“Not noticeably,” Jaskier admitted. “You know, I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

“I’m not implying anything,” said Geralt. “Just trying to make sense of this.”

“You’re implying there was some kind of, of – interspecies adultery going on in my family,” said Jaskier. “Which is ridiculous, and I could very well take offense.”

“This isn’t a spell,” said Geralt. “If it’s not a spell it must be something natural about one of us. I know it isn’t me. So it must be you.”

“I don’t see that that follows,” said Jaskier. “And I _don’t_ see how you go from there to interspecies adultery. Non-humans are affected by witchers, aren’t they? And, and half-elves and so on?”

“There are things that can breed with humans that wouldn’t be affected.”

“I don’t doubt that you’re right, this being your area of expertise,” said Jaskier. “But I still think you’re making some leaps here.”

“There’s no leaping,” said Geralt, his tone heating even as he tried to keep it cool. “Anything mortal dies at my touch. You didn’t die. So something in you isn’t mortal.”

“Well, when you put it like that it sounds logical enough,” Jaskier conceded. “But I really think I’d know if anything in me wasn’t human.”

“Would you?”

“Yes!”

“How?”

“Well –” Jaskier fell silent. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Anyway, we don’t know for sure this isn’t a spell, do we? For all we know I only started being immune to you some time yesterday afternoon.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

“See, don’t have a smart retort to that, do you?” Jaskier lounged back on the bed, face scrunching in thought. “Although.”

“Although?”

“Now that I think about it, I do recall a few instances shortly after we met when I borrowed your waterskin after being expressly told not to.”

Searching his face for any sign that he was joking, Geralt said, “you _what?_ ”

“Mine was empty and I was thirsty,” said Jaskier with a nervous shrug. “I thought you were exaggerating.”

Geralt said nothing.

“Were you?” said Jaskier, his tone bordering on plaintive. “Exaggerating?”

“No.”

“So that really ought to have killed me?” Wordless, Geralt nodded. “Ah.” Jaskier drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Well, then. That would suggest this isn’t a recent development, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “It would.”

He’d suspected as much. But being confronted with evidence that Jaskier wasn’t what he appeared to be on the surface was still – daunting.

Rising to his feet, Jaskier folded his arms. “Sooo,” he said. “I probably could have been hugging you this whole time?”

“That’s not the right take away from this,” said Geralt.

“I disagree,” said Jaskier. “I feel it’s the most important take away of all.” He cocked his head to the side. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Do you want some breakfast?”

He sauntered towards the door. “Jaskier,” said Geralt.

“Hm?” Jaskier looked at him, wide-eyed and guileless, and he found he had no idea what to say.

He settled for, “the sheets.”

“The sheets?” Jaskier’s eyes went still wider and throwing back his head he clutched at it. “ _Fuck!_ The sheets. I said I’d pay for the sheets.”

“Yeah.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Jaskier moaned into his hands. “I shouldn’t be allowed to make financial decisions when I’m that horny. I hope they don’t charge too much for them.”

“Sorry,” said Geralt. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to.”

“No,” said Jaskier. “No, I said I’d pay and I meant it. It’s fine. I’m just – frustrated.”

“You don’t have to pay for them,” said Geralt again.

Jaskier shot him a look. “I said I’d pay. Consider it my treat. Let’s just not make a habit of it.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“I’ll think of something.” He clapped Geralt on the shoulder. “See you downstairs.”

*

Long minutes later, Geralt ventured downstairs to find that Jaskier had paid for the room – and the sheets – and was waiting in the yard with pastries.

“Got you breakfast,” he said, thrusting a warm pastry into Geralt’s hands. 

Side by side, Jaskier a safe distance away, they fetched Roach from the stable and left the yard. Jaskier ambled along the street, thoughtfully chewing his pastry. “You paid for the sheets, by the way.”

“I did?”

“In case anyone asks,” said Jaskier between bites. “You were injured and you needed somewhere to sleep it off, so you gave me the money to pay for the sheets.”

“That was good of me,” said Geralt.

“I thought it would come off better if you were paying.”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “Thanks.”

Jaskier finished his breakfast. He licked crumbs of pastry off his fingertips. They reached the edge of town and started along the track down the valley, the stream tumbling on one side of them, the hill rising up on the other. Jaskier drifted a little closer to him, and a little closer still. Geralt took off his mask, breathing easier at the feel of cool air on his skin.

He dug into his breakfast.

“I’ve been thinking more about what you said earlier,” said Jaskier.

“Yeah?”

“What sort of things might a person be mixed with, that might make them –” Jaskier flapped a hand at Geralt as if trying to encompass his whole body. “– Immune?”

“A number of things,” said Geralt.

“Could you enlighten me?”

“You sure you want to know?”

“Yes, I want to know!” His tone had been easy, but now there was a touch of heat in Jaskier’s voice.

Geralt chewed a mouthful of cheese pastry. He swallowed. “The fair folk,” he said, and heard a sharp intake of breath. “Elemental creatures. Some kinds of demons.”

“Okay,” said Jaskier before he could go on. “Okay. So we’re in that sort of territory, are we?”

“Yeah. That sort.”

“But, I mean –” Jaskier motioned at his chest. “Your medallion. Doesn’t it do its – thing, for demons and the like?”

“It signals danger,” said Geralt. “Whatever you are you’re harmless.”

“Thanks,” said Jaskier. “I think.” He bit his lip. “Could you hazard a guess?”

He’d never met a human with fae blood before but he knew it could be – eccentric. It could lie all but hidden in a family line, coming out only in strange quirks that could easily be written off as luck or charm or talent – generations in, it might come out as real power.

Jaskier had a way with people. A magnetism. A natural flare for music and for performance. A touch of immortality.

“No,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

“So you think I could be part – demon? Or something?”

“I don’t think it’s likely you’re part demon,” said Geralt. “Couldn’t say anything for sure.”

“That’s _almost_ reassuring,” said Jaskier. “Should I – do something about this?”

“You could ask your parents,” Geralt said. Jaskier scoffed. “Or you could see a mage. They might be able to figure you out.”

“I’m not sure I want to do that either.” Jaskier nudged Geralt. “Do you think I should?”

“It’s your choice.”

“You’re no help at all today,” Jaskier snapped. He breathed out, and said, unsteady, “sorry. I’m sorry. You’re not – it’s just not every day you find out you’re not entirely human.”

Geralt grunted.

“No offence,” Jaskier added.

“None taken.”

Jaskier was still tense with anxiety. Geralt could see it in the tight set of his jaw, hear it in the thrumming of his heartbeat. “Whatever this is,” he said, “it doesn’t change anything about you. It’s been inside you all your life. It’s not done you any harm so far.”

“Hm,” said Jaskier.

“You’re the same as you always were. Anyone who thinks different of you isn’t worth your time.”

“Is that so?”

Geralt finished his pastry. He brushed away the crumbs and tugged off his gloves.

They were alone, under the clear blue sky, shaded on one side by the rising hill. The only other living thing in sight was the black dash of a kite high above them. Summoning his courage, he took Jaskier’s hand in his.

At being touched so suddenly, so confidently, Jaskier started. But then the tension left him, and he breathed out, his stance loosening. Lacing their fingers together he squeezed Geralt’s hand.

Geralt squeezed back, firm and steady, and the smile Jaskier gave him in return was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading & commenting!!
> 
> Answers to some questions u may have about this fic:
> 
> **What colour is Geralt's cum?**
> 
> Grey-ish.
> 
> **Is Jaskier part fairy?**
> 
> Yes. I don't know anything about how the fair folk work in Witcher canon so I was making up the stuff about how fae blood works. Apologies if it's wildly incorrect.
> 
> I did consider writing another chapter where they go looking for a mage & get a conclusive answer. It would have involved them meeting Yennefer earlier than in canon & I wasn't really sure where to go with it beyond just giving a more objective explanation for Jaskier's immunity so I scrapped the idea.
> 
> I have no plans to write any more in this AU & no idea how Geralt and Yennefer's relationship would play out when they physically can't touch. Imagine whatever you like depending on your feelings on Geralt/Yennefer ig.
> 
> **How come Geralt can ride Roach?**
> 
> A lot of the safety measures Geralt takes, such as not letting anyone touch him even through his clothes, are willfully over-cautious bcos a) it gives the people around him a sense of security, b) if an accident DID happen it would be really really bad and c) bcos witchers travel around constantly they can't expect people to understand all the nuances of what is & isn't safe so it's best to just avoid contact altogether. 
> 
> So long as they're sensible witchers can ride a horse with minimal risk to the horse. The practical benefits outweigh the risks.
> 
> The mask is another measure which isn't strictly necessary which is why Geralt can & will take it off when he's alone with Jaskier even before knowing he's immune.
> 
> **Do witchers have a lot of sex with each other?**
> 
> Yes & I imagine it's kind of awkward for everyone in winter when they're all hooking up and Geralt is left out.


End file.
